His Master's Scraps
by raptorcock
Summary: Instead of leaving, The Hound returns to The Battle of the Blackwater, and is rewarded for his service. But what can a dog expect but the scraps from his master's table? Sansa x The Hound. Some dialogue from ASoIaF, and all characters belong to George R. R. Martin with all due respect to him for his amazing world and creations. [warning for some non-consensual things.]
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: This story is written entirely for my own personal gratification, due to me getting very emotional over the rather tragic in-book relationship between Sansa and Sandor. I am putting it online for neither profit nor malice, and only so those with a similar affliction may have a little comfort (as we so sorely need, because GRRM is a tyrant of a writer in the best way possible). The events are in no way book-canon, and my own interpretations of any characters are merely that- my own interpretations- and have no bearing on the actual characters. If you have seen the television show, I urge you to buy the books and read them, and love them as I have. If you have read the books, then I shouldn't have to tell you to watch the show.**

**This fanfic takes place in a very slight cross between the book and the show- Sansa is soon to be 15, while she isn't even a teenager in the books. Even so, there will likely be sexual scenes, and I remind you that although Sansa is underage, marriage between a very young girl and an older man is very common in Westeros. There will also likely be scenes which may trigger those who have issues with violence, abuse and sexual violence, although the former is the only one that will be between Sansa and Sandor, and even then it will be incredibly limited. I will add a warning to any chapter with the above in it, and if you are personally affected by _any _content within this fanfiction, please PM me and I will add a warning to the appropriate chapter. **

**Thank you for reading this, and for any reviews, follows or favorites. **

**Some dialogue is from ASoIaF, but I have tried to keep this minor. **

Sansa backed away from the window, retreating toward the safety of her bed. _I'll go to sleep, _she told herself, _and when I wake it will be a new day, and the sky will be blue again. The fighting will be done and someone will tell me whether I'm to live or die. _"Lady," she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

Then something stirred behind her, and a hand reached out of the dark and grabbed her wrist.

Sansa opened her mouth to scream, but another hand clamped down over her face, the reek of blood filling her nostrils and making her almost gag. "Little bird. I knew you'd come."

His voice, rough and low, was accompanied with a sour stench of wine and bile, and she tensed. She couldn't fight him. The Hound was twice her size, built even more solidly than her father or Robb or Jon. Arya'd have been able to wriggle free, but Sansa simply froze, eyes staring into the shadows that were re-arranging themselves into the towering figure of the Hound. The faint glow of the flames made one side of his face shine wetly, and Sansa realized with a lurch that it was blood. Whether it was his or someone else's, she couldn't tell, but there was a lot of it. "If you scream, I'll kill you. Believe that."

His hand drooped, grazing against her chin. It reminded her, vaguely, of Ser Dontos' movements. Slow, careful, but otherwise clumsy in his drunkenness. But she did not scream, even when she realized that the stickiness on her skin was also likely to be blood, and not when the Hound's huge figure slumped before her. He seemed to be sitting on her bed, and the silence was more oppressive than his hand over her mouth. But what could she say?

"Tell me, Little Bird."

She gulped, blinking at the vague mass where she assumed his head was, hands knitting across her belly. "T-Tell you what?"

"What I should do."

His arm reached out, brushing her skirts, and for an instant she thought back to Cersei's words- _After the battle, soldiers often seem to want flesh more than coin…_ But instead he grasped a pitcher of wine, drinking with audible gulps.

"… Why are yo-"

"A good dog needs to be told to fetch or play dead, Little Bird, and the Lannisters have trained this one well. Too bad I can't find a poxy one of 'em. So. You. Tell me what to do."

She thought that she could hear a thin edge of humour in his voice, beneath the usual rasp, and she took a step backwards. That was a bad idea. He rose, mountainous, and the fire beyond the window did not seem as terrifying as it had. Her heart was pounding, face set in a mask of politeness.

"Your eyes give you away, Little Bird."

"I… I…"

"Look at me."

His hands seized hers, and a burst of wildfire illuminated his face, reflected in the blood and the mad whites of his eyes. _He's scared. _The realisation made her tremble, fingers closing on his. "You owe me a song, Little Bird, but I'll take an order instead."

_He's so scared he cannot trust himself_. Sansa tore her gaze away from the horror of his face to the burning world outside, mouth pursed. "Fight."

His breath caught, hands losing all their strength, but Sansa's grip grew stronger. She heaved their hands up between them, gripping the bases of his thumbs. "Go out there, and kill them."

"We could run. I could keep you safe. They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."

But his voice was dull, and Sansa felt something deep within her break. The Hound was fearless, or so it had seemed. How bad was the battle, how horrible, that he would make such a feeble excuse to avoid it?

"There's no way of escape. And when the gate falls, they'll come in, and… and…"

She could say no more, the Queen's matter-of-fact tone seeming to speak from the walls themselves. Sansa had already felt the terror of rape; and The Hound had saved her then, too. That did not seem lost on him.

"You're learning, Little Bird." His hands came alive once more, yanking her closer, and she closed her eyes as he pressed his lips to hers, harsh and close-mouthed. Time slowed, terror welling within her until she was sure she would scream, yet instead she opened her eyes.

He was gone, leaving an empty pitcher and her lips smeared with the salt and iron of blood.


	2. Chapter 2

The room bustled about the Iron Throne, the crowd craning their necks and shifting to best display their attire. If Sansa had walked into the throne room fresh from Winterfell, she'd have been amazed by the finery about her. Now she knew it for what it was; ornament. Beauty had no bearing on a person's true nature. The gloom, dissipated by the frantic atmosphere of the battle, had returned like a bridal cloak about her shoulders, smothering any flights of fancy before they hatched. Still, she was seated in a place of honor, beneath Joffrey's insolent gaze, and so she wore her manners as armor, sitting still with eyes downcast, even as the sound of heavy hoof-beats summoned a chorus of gasps. Tywin Lannister, flanked on one side by the knight of flowers, and on the other…

The Hound was not wearing armor, and his face was twice the horror it had been before. He took his usual position, half-hidden in the Iron Throne's shadow, but that hid the burnt side better than the whole. His good eye, swollen shut, seemed to match Cersei's deep purple gown, and a vast black-brown scab spread from forehead to the harsh curve of his jaw. His sword-arm was splinted and suspended in a sling, but he showed no indication of pain. He simply stared ahead as he always had, not seeing Sansa's hurried aversion of her eyes, or perhaps just ignoring it.

Did he remember? Or did he chalk up his sudden return into the midst of the fight to the wine? The Hound's heroic stand was the talk of King's Landing; tales had spread of how the scarred warrior had burst into the fray on his huge black destrier, laying waste to Stannis' men and returning with the limp body of Tyrion Lannister slung over his saddle, before plunging in again. Lord Tywin's forces had found him, back to the walls, one arm broken and blinded by his own blood, knee-deep in fallen men. The whispers had found her, but all they did was remind her of the dark, the smell of smoke, the taste of blood and the cruel way he'd manhandled her. He… He'd _kissed_ her, sent her so wild with fear that she hadn't even heard him leave. Everything about it was wrong. He was not meant to kiss her; she was promised to Joffrey. None of the men in the north would have done such a thing, to threaten and potentially disgrace someone who was already betrothed. What if someone- a maid, a guard- had seen him leaving her chambers? The mere thought made her stomach sink even further.

The woman next to her jabbed an elbow into her side, and Sansa realized her mask had slipped. Joffrey hadn't seemed to notice her stricken expression, too busy greeting the Tyrells, garlanding them with thanks and jewels as each stepped forward; plump Lord Tyrell, the knight of flowers having taken a space between his brother Garlan and a young woman who had a head of brown curls the same as his.

"If there is any boon you would ask of me, ask and it shall be yours."

Joffrey spread his arms wide, the image of a gallant king in his crimson and gold, and Loras knelt before him. Once, Sansa remembered, The Knight of Flowers had given her a rose. To see him kneel before Joffrey was another dream turned to dust, although the fantasy of being carried away on his rose-covered destrier had given her little comfort these past months.

"Your Grace. I beg the honor of serving in your Kingsguard, to defend you against your enemies."

Joffrey eased Loras to his feet, pressing his lips to the knight's cheek. It could have been an illustration from one of her picture-books, but for all she knew about the golden king. And now it was the elder Tyrell brother's turn. He was stockier, less ethereal than his brother, and he drew the girl forwards with him. "Your Grace. May I introduce my maiden sister, Margaery, the delight of House Tyrell and all Highgarden."

Margaery curtseyed, blushing gently, before Garlan Tyrell continued. "She was wed to Renly Baratheon, yet the war stole him from her before their union could be consummated, and as such… she is innocent, and wishes nothing more than for me to tell you of how she has grown to love you from afar, to admire your wisdom and courage. I beseech you to take her hand in marriage, and cement the brotherhood between our two houses."

Joffrey's face shifted into a mask of surprise, Sansa's eyes glued to those before her. What was going on? The expressionless eyes of the King darted to her, then back, before he shook his head, the epitome of regret. "Ser Garlan, Lady Margaery- I well know of your beauty and kindness, milady, and appreciate your desire to unite our houses. Yet I am promised to another, and I must keep my oath as King."

No. Or was this good? Sansa's sudden hope was immediately buried beneath questions; what would happen to her if she was no longer Joffrey's betrothed? He already beat her, tortured her, forced her to gaze upon her father's head. Without the protection her position gave her, Joffrey's treatment would only get worse. She watched in a daze as Cersei rose, her clear voice imploring Joffrey to take Margaery, the High Septon chiming in. And then Joffrey raised his hand, beckoning him to her.

She stood, taking small steps over until she stood beside Garlan Tyrell, standing with head bowed before him.

"Sansa Stark, you have professed to love me, and are my betrothed. How should you feel if this engagement were to end?"

"Your Grace, I… I shall abide by your decisi-"

"That is not what I asked, Sansa."

"I was greatly looking forward to our wedding, Your Grace, and to being your wife."

Sansa bowed her head. She did not wish to anger him, to make whatever came of this worse. Perhaps he'd get Ser Ilyn Payne to behead her like he had her father. She kept her gaze lowered. If she met his eyes, what awful things would she see there?

"Hound!"

Joffrey's voice had the same tone it had when he'd been about to sentence her father to death, the same tone of mocking amusement. This was it, then. The Hound would kill her. Perhaps Joffrey had noticed the sparse kindness the man had shown her; or, more likely, he knew how The Hound scared her. Clegane's shadow fell across her as he was ushered to her side. She could hear his breath, tinged with irritation at being brought into the collective gaze. No doubt he'd rather be off drinking, fighting or whoring. "Hound, you fought bravely, and brought down so many that the peasants seem to think you immortal."

Joffrey paused, evidently waiting for some response, but got none. Had it been Sansa he was speaking to, she'd have gotten beaten yet again for ignoring him. Yet even Joffrey knew that Sandor Clegane was not to be baited. He continued, sounding a little less gleeful, but malice still seeped his voice. "As such, I should reward you- but, of course, what can a dog be given but scraps from his master's table?"

There was a ripple of laughter, and The Hound grunted, shifting his weight from one broad leg to another. "Sandor Clegane, as a loyal warrior of House Lannister, I bestow upon thee the hand in marriage of Sansa Stark, as well as all lands and honors that come alongside her name."

The shock was upon her again, as easily as it had engulfed her in that darkened room, as Joffrey turned with a lazy grin. "There, Sansa. You shall have your wedding, and a husband after all. Are you not going to thank me?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace."

"And now you should leave together, as befits such a charming pair. I'm sure Loras can guard me for the remainder of this session, Hound, but I shall want you later."

The Hound seized her arm, all but marching her out into the dim corridors. He released her, but didn't even look back, a rumble of curses escaping his lips. Truly, Joffrey was the cruelest person she had ever known, but she would not cry. Not until she reached her chambers, and the safety of her bed.


	3. Chapter 3

The whore was not beautiful by any means. Even flat on her back, her tits sagged, and the area about her mouth was scabrous and flushed. But that meant she was cheap, and Sandor Clegane had given up on expensive whores years ago. The more you paid, the less likely you were to get a good fuck out of 'em. All that gold went to clothes and jewels and a sense of superiority over him, as if their trade was honourable. Curse Littlefinger for starting that trend; and curse him again for his idea that the best thing a whore could do was to make her client think that he was something special. He didn't fucking want special. He wanted to just fuck some anonymous bitch until he was spent, then leave. It wasn't even an erotic act, merely one of relieving stress, and not the preferred one at that. A broken arm had lead him to this lumpy bed with its musty sheets. He wanted the blasted thing to heal so he could get out there in the training yards and show a few of those fucking knightlings what was what until they never even thought of calling him 'Ser' again.

Although soon he'd be Lord Clegane, and that was far, far worse.

He hadn't protested, of course. Joffrey was unpredictable, and although he didn't fear the brat, it was still best to go through other routes. Yet Joffrey had been with all of Sandor's other means of escape when he'd returned, and it seemed hopeless. Tywin had almost struck the boy for his stupidity, and then the blonde whore had thrown herself between, wittering about how this could be a good thing. Good? He did not want to marry. He had everything he needed; gold to buy a skin of wine or a cunt if he felt like using one. He did not need a child for a wife. He did not need to have that brat king crowing about how Sansa would get a bedding she'd never forget. He did not need to be used as another way Joffrey could wound her. Aye, he knew why he'd been chosen. It had nothing to do with anything save for humiliation for the girl, horror and fear and having to pretend for her entire life that she loved a monster.

The worst part was that he did not feel sorry for it.

He pitied her, but beneath that, there was something. It stirred more when he was in his cups, this pleasure at Joffrey's idiotic revenge. He was drawn to the Little Bird when he was drunk, as odd as it was. At first it'd been the masochistic desire to see the terror in her eyes contrast with the forced smiles and manners. His protection of her was an extension of that, in many ways. She was naivety itself incarnate, the way she'd loved Joffrey, and to have her rely on him to be cared for was pleasing, in a way. A cynical, bitter way, but he was cynical and bitter.

The Battle on the Blackwater had sent him to her room. He hadn't known she'd be there, of course. In fact, he'd been hoping she'd have been down with the Queen Whore and the simpering court ladies. He was hiding. Hiding from the fire and the consequences of deserting, tucked away in a place nobody'd think to look. Why would he hide in a girl's bedroom? They'd look for him in the inns, then his quarters, then god-knows where. Sansa Stark's bedroom wouldn't even cross their minds, and he could slip out once things got quiet.

The Little Bird just had to ruin all of his plans. Hadn't she known that she was meant to keep away? He'd had to be sure she didn't give him away, and that'd turned into… His hand brushed his mouth, and he grimaced. It was like something from one of her songs, except with the details wrong. The brave knight seeking a favour from his lady-love, a kiss for valour, except the knight was burnt and the lady was stiff with fear.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and snatching his smallclothes from the floor. The wooden frame let out a loud creak as he stood, dressing quickly before tossing the whore a few coins. There were bruises forming about her flabby hip already, the tell-tale press of his thumb and fingers belying the stress he'd attempted to release. It hadn't worked. He needed the clash of swords and the scent of someone else's blood, but there was little chance of that.

As he left the brothel, a path opened through the crowded street. There was murder on The Hound's face, scarred and bruised as it was, and none wanted to tempt him.

**OOC: Thanks for the reviews, favs and follows! Chapter 4 will be up... soon-ish. I have no real schedule for this, so it's basically updating whenever, but I'm loving writing it. :D**


	4. Chapter 4

She couldn't focus on her embroidery, and the dove-grey fabric of her Maiden's cloak would stain if she pricked her fingers. It had been in progress, before her betrothal to Joffrey was annulled, and the seamstresses were now all preoccupied with the royal wedding. Sansa had heard whispers, how Margaery's dress was to be all covered in pearls carved with the shapes of roses and lions, how she was to wear a cloak of pure silk roses and even her shoes covered in beadwork. So she must finish the direwolf sigil herself. It was almost done, albeit less neatly than usual. _The Hound doesn't care, so why should I?_

She had not set eye upon Sandor Clegane since they'd left the throne room, and she was glad for it. Even at a distance, all he reminded her of was the taste of blood and the gleam of mad eyes in the darkness. And pity. She could not help that; the realization of his fear of the flames had done that, as if she'd been shown the young boy he'd once been. If Ser Gregor hadn't been his elder brother, perhaps The Hound could have been… Kind. Perhaps even handsome; certainly the whole side of his face was not monstrous. Not beautiful, like Ser Loras or Joffrey, but the same kind of face that Robb or Jon had. A northern face, harsh and craggy, but animated by emotions. Her father's face had seemed to change from minute to minute, the crow's feet about his eyes cheery laughter-marks when he smiled and only serving to make him look more aged and wise if he was serious. _Perhaps The Hound would not be so bad, had he not been so mistreated. _No matter what, though, he would likely be a better husband than Joffrey. The thought made her smile. The Hound was known for whoring and drinking, so perhaps he'd simply do that, leave her be in their chambers. It seemed likely to her, although she knew little about the man save for what he'd told her.

She rose, carrying the cloak with her to her chest. She had been about to set it within, give up for the day, when the faint sound of footsteps chilled her. Sansa knew the sound of Joffrey's walk, the swaggering pace and sound of heavily-soled boots almost an alarm. He was coming, and alone. The quiet corridor was free from the clank of armor and weaponry, and he was drawing near. She seized the cloak, darting back to her chair and pinching the needle. It was poor protection, but having something sharp eased her breathing somewhat.

"Sansa."

He didn't bother to knock, letting the door slam behind him with his usual lack of care. She'd half-risen, bowing her head, but he ignored her as he settled himself in the chair beside her, looking around her room. "I don't believe I have seen your chambers before."

"No, Your Grace."

"I suppose you've decorated them in the… Northern fashion."

His voice was vaguely disgusted, as if the lack of trinkets and tapestries was offensive. Sansa supposed it may be. Joffrey was almost a peacock nowadays, his outfits bright and gaudy with the rich fabrics and vast amount of jewels he wore.

"No, Your Grace. I was not expecting that your hospitality would last so long, and so I packed sparingly when I first left Winterfell."

"Well. No matter. Look at me, Sansa."

She turned her head to meet his gaze, daring herself not to look away. She could have spent hours before, simply staring at him, but it was as if his beauty had been tainted now. Before she had only seen the good, but now she couldn't help noting the scattering of red blemishes half-hidden by his golden curls, the lack of emotion in his green eyes. "I know you must feel very… badly about this new betrothal."

She blinked, before shaking her head. "No, Your Grace. Yo-"

"Don't be stupid." His eyes rolled, and he sighed with the tone her septa used to take with Arya. "Of course you hate it. The Hound's a vicious beast. But I had to make an example of you, as well as showing that loyalty rewards well. So Mother says, although my grandfather wants you to marry my uncle."

He raised one hand, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "But I do not intend to let you be simply because our betrothal is over. After all, I cannot let such a beautiful thing be wasted upon such a wretch entirely."

"Your Grace, I do not rightly understand… You are to be married to Lady Margaery."

"A king can have other women. Whores. My father did. One of the Aegons did too. The third, or the fourth. He had a lot of whores and a lot of bastards." His hand shifted to her thigh, gripping so hard it hurt. "The Hound will bring you to my bed _whenever_ I demand it."

"He won't."

"He will or I'll have his head. That King Aegon, he had any woman he wanted or no. And The Hound is loyal to _me_. He won't even care about you anyway, it's not as if he's willingly doing this."

His hand tightened, then relaxed, and he stood. He surveyed her as he would a dog or a horse, arms folded over his chest. "If I wasn't of a mind to demand proof of your maidenhood, I would have you right now. You'll be married within the week anyway, so I suppose I can wait."

Joffrey turned, leaving with as little care as he had entered, and Sansa allowed herself to slip briefly from her composure, trembling and pressing her fist into her mouth to suppress the sobs. She only stopped when she broke skin, the pain jerking her back as her mouth was filled with the taste of blood once more.


	5. Chapter 5

They were not to be married in the great sept of Balor, as she had one-time dreamed. Instead Sansa had been summoned to the small sept in the red keep, escorted there by two handmaidens of Cersei's. She recognized them, from passing them in the hallways and her time spent with the Queen, but neither would speak to her. Instead they glanced at her whenever they thought she wasn't looking, and exchanged pitying looks. She pretended not to notice, holding the heavy cloth of her maiden's cloak to keep it from trailing on the ground behind her, although she was not concerned with keeping it clean. It was more to prevent it choking her; the weight of the fabric pulled the chain that clasped it tight against her throat, making her breath short and the nausea roiling in her gut stronger.

The Lannisters were awaiting her before the sept, Cersei and Joffrey resplendent while Tywin stood aside, grim and almost a separate species from his daughter and grandson. Still, Sansa curtseyed to him too, three little bobs that seemed to amuse the king. "Your Graces, my Lord Hand. I trust this day finds you well."

Cersei merely ignored her, while Joffrey stepped forwards. "As your brother is a traitor to the realm, I'm being your father today. Aren't you glad?"

His eyes were gleaming, bright and cruel, full of the words he'd spoken two days prior. This was not a marriage to him; it was a way of cementing his ownership over her, a way of trapping her to him. The Hound was his, through and through, no matter what small kindnesses he paid her, and she had to remember that. Joffrey would do what he wanted, and nobody could stop him, not even his mother or his uncle or-

"Let's get this fucking marriage over with."

Sansa froze, head turning as The Hound loomed in her peripheral vision. He was huge as ever, arm slung across his chest and in the drab clothes she'd occasionally seen him in about the keep. His hair had not even been brushed; it hung about his face, tangled as if he'd just risen from his bed. Tywin's mouth had gone from narrow to non-existent, and Joffrey's cheeks had turned bright red.

"Hound, I demand to know why you're dressed so… so…" He spluttered, Sansa turning her face to avoid being peppered with spittle.

"Some of us have better things to spend coin on than clothes."

How could he be so insolent? Sansa's stomach flipped, seeing Joffrey's teeth gritting behind those fat pink lips. Had The Hound lost his wits, gone mad with the flames he'd been so close to? Did he not know that Joffrey'd have his head for less than that?

"Now, Joffrey. This wedding was at short notice, and Clegane doesn't have a seamstress. It'd cost much to get suitable attire, especially with the preparations for your marriage."

Tywin Lannister's face was blank, his tone long-suffering, but it did give the king pause. "And I will remind you that this marriage is a message to your people. You said it yourself; they need to see that loyalty will be rewarded. And that treachery will be dealt with too."

The Hound had spat at the word reward, but otherwise he stood still, impatiently looking about him with a curled lip. His bruises were healing, and he could open both his eyes once more, although he still bore the vast scab across the top of his face. He'd likely get another scar, judging by the size of it. What was one more to him?

Joffrey was still flushed, nostrils flaring, but he seemed to have lost the impulse to punish The Hound, instead shoving past Sansa to stalk into the Sept. Cersei followed, then Tywin, leaving her with The Hound.

"Ser, shoul-"

"Don't call me Ser, Little Bird." There was no anger now, only resignation, and she dared to look up at his face. To her surprise, he was looking back at her, grey eyes steady. "Let's get this show over with before the brat decides to get Ilyn Payne to be the guest of honor."

Sansa nodded, The Hound striding off. She had to hurry to keep up, still carrying her maiden's cloak. It could be no worse than this, she decided. No worse, save for having her head cut off by Ser Payne.


	6. Chapter 6

When he'd awoken, after what brief sleep he could get, he'd contemplated not moving. Just lying within his bedchamber, until the fucking Kingsguard broke his door down and dragged him to the sept. But then he shifted and pain jolted up his broken arm, and he realised that being forced would hurt. Even more so depending on who was doing the dragging; some of those fucks hated him, likely because he could best them at all their knightly games and so openly despised their airs and titles and graces. Fuck them all. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction; he wouldn't let those poxy sons of whores get anything from him without one of them having their sword buried in his guts. He dressed as he would for any other day without his armour. Let them jeer. He'd tried to get this called off, even demanded to speak to Tywin Lannister himself, and yet he was still being forced to bear this so-called 'reward'. He wasn't deaf; he'd heard Joffrey smirking about how traitors should be punished. This was no honor. It was another way for that brat to abuse the Stark girl. Plain as the fucking burns on his face.

She stood by him, face dead white above her pale dress, the chain of her cloak tight against her throat. Of course, she was pretty; he'd never seen her be anything but, save for the times Joffrey'd decided to torture her. Even then, tears and fear didn't make her ugly. Neither did her half-hearted motions, the songs sung and vows made delivered in a monotone that rivalled his own. She didn't even respond when Joffrey, thinking himself to be subtle, groped her while unfastening her maiden's cloak. Sandor's teeth gritted at that sight, the sheer fucking annoyance making his own hands fumble as he snatched his own cloak from a shrinking attendant. The yellow fabric was crumpled and cheap, the hounds upon it crude shapes, but what better to represent his fucking house? He fastened it at her throat, and she resolutely ignored him. More power to her. Nothing'd piss Joffrey off more than seeing her unphased.


	7. Chapter 7

The cloak about her shoulders smelt vaguely damp, and she could feel the clasp straining to stay attached as soon as The Hound had fastened it. What material she could feel was rough, but she had no intention of keeping it. She simply had to make it through this ceremony and she could return to her chambers. It had become a litany in her head, reassuring herself over and over that this would be done soon. Sansa raised her head, seeing The Hound's grim face, closer than before. And oh, this was the end of it, the final hurdle and the final nail in the coffin of her dreams. She gulped.

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband." Sansa had been sure her voice would tremble, but the words came out steady, echoing faintly about the statues of the Seven, quickly followed by The Hound's response. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife."

His mouth was just as hard as it had been in her room on that dark night, but far more swift, far less shocking. She'd expected it, after all, and that seemed to make the difference between terror and apathy. She was just thankful that this was drawing to a close, the septon raising his crystal as high as he could. It just about came level with The Hound's head, shining rainbows into Sansa's eyes and across The Hound's dull clothing.

"Here in the light of gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim Sandor, of House Clegane and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

Would that it was true, and Joffrey would be cursed if he dared to touch her.

She turned, ready to leave the sept and return to her chambers, but Joffrey's crowing voice made her freeze. "They'll have no feast, but they'll be bedded!"

It rang across the sept, and The Hound's mouth twisted in a grimace as the guests glanced about. Highborn all, they seemed hesitant- but Joffrey came over to her, grasping the neck of her dress and tearing it open. Then they came, a herd of them, and she let out a sob, hands desperately trying to cover herself as she was hoisted into the air. How had she forgotten? How had she set this out of her mind? She'd seen many weddings, seen the bride and groom carried off after with merriment and whooping and shouting, but she'd assumed that it wouldn't occur. They weren't having a wedding feast, so how could they? She was in the midst of a whirlwind of hands, her bridal cloak left trampled behind them, trying to fend off the gropes and prods and grabbing fingers as she was borne out of the sept and away, deeper into the keep. Tears soon blinded her, teeth clenched in a rictus grin to keep from bawling before she was heaved into a room, landing heavily on her knees. These were not her chambers; they were smaller, darker, but she crawled into the bed and hid her face beneath the covers, still able to hear the jeers of the men outside.

_Oh Seven, please stop this, please just… make this stop, let me wake up in Winterfell, save me, please… _

"And I say fuck the lot of you. Get away from my door or I'll gut you, broken arm or no."

"Hound, I order you to-"

"Fuck? You order me to fuck her? Oh, I'll do _that_, but not with the whole fucking keep outside my door. I'm a hound, not a whore."

The door opened and slammed shut, the chattering voices dissipating even as Sansa began to tremble harder, Joffrey's voice shouting something about a bedsheet that trailed off into nothing. She would not cry, not until she was alone. She would be strong, she would… The door opened and closed again, quickly, and then she heard him cross the room. There was the faint glug of a pitcher being poured, and then the bed shifted as he sat down, the sounds of him drinking filling her ears.

"They're gone."

She didn't reply, eyes shut tight against the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, before flinching hard as his hand came down upon her head, rough fingers tangling in her hair. "Bugger them all, little bird, bugger them and their wives and their fucking mothers."

Despite his angry words, his tone was soft, as close to gentle as she'd ever heard it, and she lowered the blanket a little, peeping out. He wasn't looking at her- he was clothed, although his tunic was torn a little at the collar, and over his lap was folded her bridal cloak. His cup rested upon it, empty save a few drops, and it was at this he was staring. "And the king. Bugger him too."

His eyes slid over to her and she cringed away with a sharp intake of breath. That made him smile, strangely, and his hand left her head. "And I still scare you, Little Bird."

"Not as much as Joffrey does."

Her voice was a whisper, but the name made The Hound rise, setting the cloak and cup down with his good arm.

"But I scare you enough."

He tugged the sling over his head, then his shirt followed, his back still to her. His skin was riddled with scars, pale and taut against the ropes of muscle built up over years in the training yard. Sansa pulled the blanket back over her eyes, shaking her head. "No. Please. I… I…"

"Look at me, Little Bird."

She shook her head harder, before the blanket was wrenched from her grasp. He was still shirtless, and he stood, holding a dagger toward her. "Joffrey demands proof, but what does he know of maidenheads and bedding? I can't do this by myself with a broken arm, so you're going to help me."

Sansa sat up, clutching the blankets about her, hair coursing over her bare shoulders. "Wh... What do you mean?"

"Another scratch isn't going to make a difference. If Joffrey wants bloodied sheets, he'll get bloodied sheets. Now do it, before I decide to fuck you instead."

She reached out, taking the dagger with trembling hands, before holding the sharp edge to The Hound's outstretched arm.

"Not there. Higher."

The cut was made across his forearm, diagonally, and he smeared it across the bedsheets before tearing his already-torn shirt with his teeth. He bound the wound clumsily, before settling down across the room, seated in a heavy wooden chair. The Hound fell asleep quickly, broken arm held protectively to his chest, but Sansa could not sleep. Instead her eyes were drawn to the makeshift bandage again and again, brow furrowing as blood slowly stained the material. _He would bleed… for my safety? He would sooner injure himself than force himself upon me?_

Once more she felt something shift within her, deep down, the same feeling she'd had when she'd realized his fear had lead him to desperation, and her eyes moved to his sleeping face. It was tense even while dreaming, teeth occasionally grinding as loud as millstones.

_The Hound is no monster. He can fear, and be selfless, and be kind. The Hound is… just a man, nothing more. And a more honorable man than those outside this chamber._

She curled up, watching The Hound's chest rise and fall, over and over.

Perhaps she'd been rewarded.

Perhaps she'd been given an escape from Joffrey's affections.

But those were only perhapses.

When she slept, she dreamt of a night lit with the glow of wildfire, and wild grey eyes. And this time she was not so afraid.


	8. Chapter 8

She was still asleep as he awoke, still twitching from the dreams of fire and with aching arm and teeth. He hadn't drunk enough, and as he stretched and yawned his jaw let out a series of loud clicks, followed by the percussion solo of his spine. The Hound didn't like sleeping; what he usually did was drink until he passed out, long past the days when a hangover was debilitating. A headache he could stand; what he could not bear was waking with the smell of roasting meat in the back of his throat and the crackle of flames somewhere beyond his hearing. He wouldn't eat today. Even the scent of the kitchens was like to be too close to the smell of burning man, and if he did choke down something it'd all taste the same when it came up again.

He stood, paused by the tatters of his night's ordeal, before his sore eyes once again found the coils of red hair across his pillow. What a sight, and not one that he should have ever thought to see. The Little Bird was his Little Wife now, hidden beneath her stained bridal cloak save for her head and shoulders. Sandor'd dissipated the throng of women who'd surrounded him at the sept easily, save for the one mad cat who'd torn his shirt, and watched as she'd been borne off. That was nothing he wanted a part of. Other beddings, they were done when full of drink and food. And Joffrey had begun it, as he began the whole sorry story. The little shit.

His teeth gritted, an involuntary snarl upon his lips, before he turned away. She was his wife, but not his. She was still a Little Bird, and he should change his blasted nickname to The Cage.

He washed his face, awkward with one hand, before fumbling the cloth from his arm. Sansa was no natural with weapons; the edges were ragged, but the wound itself had clotted and blended with the scars and scratches he bore. For all the rest of the keep knew, he'd done as they expected him to, and Sansa was no maiden.

When he entered the main chamber once more, she was sitting up, huddled in the cloak as if cold. Her eyes followed him, hair hanging about her face so she looked almost a wildling.

"I'm sleeping in there tonight," his voice was still the rasp of a saw through wood, but she understood, and wrapped herself tighter. "You think I mean to take your precious maidenhood? Try sleeping in that fucking chair and seeing how you like it."

His tunics were in a chest beside his bed, and her head swiveled as he moved to it. It was a struggle to hold it the right way around, let alone get it over his head, but he managed, the heavy splint catching the fabric. He swore, tugging it free, before turning to her. "Get up. I've my orders, and that sheet is to be given to that king you loved so dear."

"Should I…"

"No. I'll tell him you're indisposed." Sandor let his face slip into a leer, winking at her. "A small thing like you, he'll have no trouble believing it. Now move."

She shuffled from the bed, backing away until her back touched the wall, as he tore the sheet from the bed with little worry for the material. "There's more in the cupboard, and they moved your clothes here. Get dressed before I get back, else I'll get used to the sight of you in my house colors and you'll wear nothing else til I say."

Sansa was all silent politeness and nods, and it was unbearable. The damn girl was treating him the way she'd treat Joffrey, were they wed, and not even a word of thanks to him for bleeding and lying and chasing off those blasted rats from his chamber door. He should have fucked her. She was behaving like he'd fucked her. He'd had whores green enough to be scared of him, and that was how they were after. Silent and avoiding his face, except with more bruises on their hips and tits and arses. She wore little enough beneath that cloak. It'd be easy enough.

But how he'd hate himself, more than he hated himself for knowing that he'd hate himself.

He left the room, sheet bundled beneath his good arm, the brown splotches upon it a tale that he hoped Joffrey would believe.


	9. Chapter 9

He'd forgotten his fucking sling, but now that little cunt was peering at the bloodied sheet, and he couldn't go and fetch it. Besides, Sansa was likely standing around, doing whatever it was women did to dress and make themselves presentable, and he didn't feel like knocking on his own chamber door. So he held his broken limb to his chest, the way he did when he slept, and tried his damndest to look like he'd fucked her. How would Joffrey even know if he hadn't? The boy was an idiot, and no mind-reader, but he kept that fucking little smirk on his face anyway.

"So tell me, Hound. Did she… like it?"

Joffrey looked up at him from his cushioned chair, crown at that jaunty angle that made him look twice the fool he was. There was something on his face, sinister, a look he'd seen before. He'd seen it that time Joffrey was a child, gazing at a fat-bellied cat, and he'd seen it at the battle, before Joffrey took command of the three whores and their load of antler men. It meant he had an idea cooking in that head of his, one that'd cause pain of some kind. He supposed he must answer, though.

"You'd have to ask her that."

Oh, that simpering little grin widened, and The Hound's mind turned upon itself. _Fucking moron of a dog, of course he wants to get his fucking paws on Sansa. _Joffrey wouldn't turn on him; the boy liked victims who were smaller than him, a coward in the worst sense. _I should have known. He's no master feeding a dog scraps; he's making me stand on my hindquarters and beg, while he holds it above my head. _

"I have half a mind to."

The sheet slipped to the floor, discarded, and Joffrey's eyes turned to his hand. He was picking under his nails with a letter-opener now, draped over the chair like some prat from the Summer Isles or Dorne. "After all, she is still my prisoner. And it would be a grave shame indeed if she'd managed to fool you."

Sandor's lips pressed together, hard, but he resisted the sudden desire to draw his sword. "I think I know the feel of a cunt when I fuck one."

"If you say so. Bring her before me. I wish to inspect her." The grinding of The Hound's teeth made Joffrey glance up, eyebrows raised. "Do you have… a problem, dog?"

"I'd give her a day or two. Wolf bitch said she couldn't walk this morning. But I'll happily show you her scratches, if that's what you want. I'll bring her in tomorrow."

"I'd rather it were today-"

He could tell that it was not what Joffrey wanted, but his words were cut off by a seamstress's tapping, and The Hound took his leave without asking, striding back to his chambers. Sansa jumped when he shoved the door open, but the look on his face kept her silent as he passed her, seizing last night's still-full wine pitcher and settling down before the fire.


	10. Chapter 10

The Hound hadn't said a word to her, and she was too scared to move. She'd perched upon the end of his bed, waiting for him to come back and tell her if Joffrey had been deceived, and he'd thumped in with a face like thunder. The first pitcher of wine hadn't lasted long, and then he'd left for a second, returning with a hunk of bread and an apple for her. She'd eaten it core and all, as the room grew dimmer and dimmer. He'd lit the taper on the way to get the third pitcher, and in the flickering gloom she knew. Joffrey hadn't believed it, and he was going to have to…

She'd steeled herself then, but the only time he'd moved from his chair was to get another pitcher and to visit the privy, and he paid her no heed either time. It had to be nearing midnight when he finally moved, turning his head towards her with melancholy eyes. He still didn't speak, but the thin nerve she'd woven pressed her. "He didn't think it was real, did he."

The Hound's face split into a grin, and his laughter filled the room. It was not a nice laugh. It was harsh, almost a choking sound, and then he stood, swaying. "Ah, no, Little Bird, he thinks it. But he wants more proof. More fucking proof."

He took one unsteady step forward, then another, before motioning for her to stand, first slowly then with more seriousness. She obliged, stepping before him and holding her head high. His eyes shifted over her, down the green woolen dress she'd dressed herself in before back to her face, and he let out another choking laugh. "I'm going to hurt you, Little Bird."

With that, her bravery gave out, and she felt herself petrify before him as he pawed his hair back from his brow, then reached out. He forced her head to turn, forced her eyes to look at him, and he was angry. "You think I'm drunk enough to fuck you? All the wine in King's landing couldn't blind me enough to it, you fucking… I'd sooner be back on the Blackwater, with the alchemist's piss and Stannis' men charging me."

Sansa felt herself trembling, and The Hound did too, his thick tongue running over his upper lip in a nervous motion. "Take your dress off."

It took all her strength to move her hands, fumbling with the buttons that ran down her chest before shrugging out of the wool, letting it puddle to the floor as she crossed her breasts with her arms, feeling bile rise in her throat. He hadn't moved save to take his hand back from her face, looking away as if he was the one embarrassed, though he stood fully-clothed.

"That'll do, Little Bird. And if you fucking cry, I'll snap your neck and have done with it."

He circled her, before his good hand closed hard on her hip from behind, pressing so hard she wanted to yelp. Only his warning kept her quiet, and she closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see him as he let her go. His breathing, heavy and scented with sour wine, told her where he was. He rounded her side, clumsily tugging her braid forward over her shoulder, and then enfolded her in his arms. A moment of confusion claimed her, but then she felt his fingernails score her back, three times in quick succession, the sensation catching her breath in her throat. It hurt, and she couldn't express it, the knowledge that he could easily kill her as effective as a gag. His breathing was heavy, and his hands caught her shoulders.

"No more. Please." Her voice was little more than a whisper, but he heard, and she knew that there was more to endure.

"So you'd rather I deflower you? Give Joffrey more bedsheets to pore over?"

Sansa opened her eyes, seeing his so close, and starred with tears. _When he is drunk, he isn't The Hound. He's trying to be, but The Hound cannot cry, and would not come close to tears for me. _"No. But... how much more?"

"Not much. You'll have scratches and bruises aplenty for his grace. Let him think I've savaged you like the beast he thinks I am and he'll smirk and be pleased with himself. Turn your head so I can get this done."

She complied, looking away into the dark as The Hound's teeth closed upon the side of her throat, his mouth hot and wet as he worried at her. He was too drunk to do it gently, and she had to grip his shoulders to stay upon her feet, drawing in a harsh breath. He paused at that and his hands trembled, and then he turned his face away. "You'll get a nice bruise there. Now get dressed. I need more wine."

He half-pushed her away, turning to the door and escaping before she could even ask him to wait. It slammed behind him, and she gathered her dress from the floor, neatly folding it and tidying it away before sitting upon the bed. Her neck ached, but oddly, and she raised her hand to touch. It was still slick with his spit, and the pressure of her fingers seemed to trace down her entire body. She shuddered, shaking her head, before seeking out her nightgown.


	11. Chapter 11

No, fuck, no. It had begun to rain, the droplets tainted with ashes and they stung his eyes to fuck as he tilted his head upwards, mouth open and growling at the sky, a silent howl. Even the rain couldn't get the taste of her skin from his mouth, because it wasn't there; it had clawed into his brain, like the smell of his burning face and even if he gulped down dirt it would be tinged with her.

It was the drink; he knew that, he'd kissed her drunk on wine and fear and blood and now he'd found himself with his mouth upon her again. Her, so pale and small and scared, and then her hands had closed on his shoulders and he'd wanted her. _Why not? She's your wife. Yet that would make me worse than the dog I am. The cunt of a wolf is the same as the cunt of a whore, when it gets down to it, and it comes at a cheaper price._

What was all of it worth if he did fuck her? Rape her, more like, but that was irrelevant. Nothing. All he'd done to keep her somehow safe here, and then he'd undo it just because his cock twitched when he caught the scent of her hair. _You never swore any fucking oaths to keep her safe. _No oaths to anyone apart from himself, and that stung most of all. He'd betray himself that easily.

_Aye, I would, and twice over. The only reason for this is to keep the Little Bird from Joffrey, and that's it. Enough with this playing at gallantry. I just don't want to see her gutted like that fucking cat if he gets her with child, and she has no reason to trust my protection if I hurt her myself. And that means there'll be nothing at the end of this game save for a headsman's axe and a spike for me._


	12. Chapter 12

Joffrey was circling her, the way that lone wolves circled sheep. She'd seen it once, from far away. Robb had pulled her to a window, pointing out the grey blur slowly, slowly edging about a white one, moving it further from its flock. Then the grey was on the white, and she hadn't wanted to watch anymore. Now she knew she'd been wrong to look away. Her heart was pounding, and although she was trying to appear calm, she knew her chest was moving awkwardly as she breathed and tried not to panic.

The Hound was stood by the door, and she could feel his eyes upon her bare back and the scratches there, but he was by far the least terrifying thing in the room. Bare to the waist, she stood. She'd tried to hide her breasts from him, clasping her hands over them, but he'd slapped them away three times, and the third time he'd slapped her face as well. She'd heard The Hound draw a harsh breath at that, but Joffrey'd glared and he hadn't spoken. _He even scares The Hound. _

"And this?"

His finger pressed the bruise on her waist, Sansa wincing as Joffrey increased the pressure on the blue-and-yellow mark.

"My handprint. She seems to bruise easy."

Joffrey made a small sound in the back of his throat, approval mixed with something far worse, and he made another circuit. This time he reached out to pinch one of her nipples. It hurt, cruelly, his nails sharp on the sensitive skin. "Then why has she no marks on her breasts?"

The Hound let out a short bark of laughter, but Sansa's heart sank.

"Why do you think, your grace? Want me to show how that handprint matches up?"

Heavy footsteps, and then his hand was on her hip, fingers curling over the bruise and her back against the roughspun of his shirt. "I'm a dog in many ways."

"That still doesn-"

"What I care about is between her legs, You think I had any interest in her tits? They're too fucking small for me to bother with. Maybe if she grows a little, but it seems she'll be as flat as her mother. The Tully bitches never had big tits."

She was trembling against him, even as he lied through his teeth, the smile on his face only in place because of the promises in his head. He'd piss on the little fucker's grave, he'd shove his cunt mother from the battlements, his father… well, he'd expose him for the sister-fucker he was and throw him to the worst of 'em in the darkest parts of king's landing, the parts where Varys would fear to send his fucking spies. He'd show him that teasing a dog leads to being bitten, all right, and Joffrey would lose more than a few fingers.

If he'd known what Joffrey meant to do, he'd have done something about it. Told Tywin or Tyrion, someone who didn't think that every shit the king took was gold. They'd see to it that the brat left Sansa well enough alone. This would set him back too much. She'd never fucking trust him, and all his half-imagined plans relied on it.

Joffrey had that constipated look on his face, the one that meant he was thinking of something. Most like something bad. He'd already tried to entirely strip her, and but for his objection it'd be obvious that her marks were faked. He'd told her to walk as if she was saddle-sore, and that helped, as did the dark mark across her neck, but she had no marks lower than the one on her waist. He hadn't wanted to touch her there, or rather his better judgement had told him not to.

"Show me how."

"You want to watch me fucking her? It's a strange man who watches dogs do that."

"You are my hound and I command you to-"

"I'm not your hound. I'm Lord Clegane of some shitty rock up north. And I will not fuck her in front of you." Joffrey's face turned to thunder, and Sandor gritted his teeth. _I'll burn his pretty face and see how he likes being like me. I'll shave his fucking blonde curls off, I'll geld him, I'll open him up and let him tell me how it feels when I crush his heart in my hands, I'll-_

The hand on her hip tightened, and he bent her from the waist, skirts tangled about her legs as his hips pressed against her, then back, then forward again and he let her go stumbling to the ground. "That's how you fuck like a dog, Your Grace. Why not show your Lady Margaery when it comes to your bedding?"

His voice was sarcastic, and she took Joffrey's obvious distraction as a chance to stuff herself awkwardly into her dress, backing away from Joffrey's threats and The Hound's deep rumble as they argued further. Joffrey seemed moments away from calling for Ser Ilyn, and the fear that shot through her was electric. Back against an uncomfortably-carved sideboard, she watched them before covering her ears, curling into a ball so she wouldn't have to see. Her skirts muffled her sobs enough, but she doubted they'd hear her.


	13. Chapter 13

"Shh. Hush."

He had strong arms, and when Joffrey had reached a dead-end in his rantings he'd given up. It seemed that he always did, when confronted by The Hound. Or perhaps it was just that she'd only seen him try to dominate those smaller and weaker, and The Hound was neither of those things. He was terrifying, burnt and scarred and seemed to be born of danger itself, and yet he'd carried her to his chambers instead of trying to uncurl her, and he'd tried so very hard. It was just a pity he couldn't stop it. Today had shown her enough, that Joffrey hadn't wed her to The Hound. Not properly, for wedding meant you were one with a person, and Joffrey still kept her apart. He didn't care if she'd been bedded or not. He just wanted to keep her close, so she couldn't get away when he wanted her.

He'd been sitting beside her on the bed they'd yet to share, one hand occasionally patting her head in a motion that reminded her of her father. Robb and Jon were brave boys, they rarely cried, and so she was the first child to require true comforting when she took a tumble or got scolded. And always her father would sit beside her, awkwardly holding her as she sobbed. Her mother was far better, but she treasured her father's memory more than anything she owned. The Hound was a poor substitute. He was not comforting as he intended, and his proximity only made her fears worse. Even now, Joffrey could be sending his men to catch him, to take him away and behead him and put him on a spike. The Hound was all that stood between her and Joffrey, with his pinching and prodding and worse. Joffrey didn't have the capacity to be gentle. At least The Hound was trying.

"He won't come, Little Bird. He's full of wind, but he hasn't the balls to take me on. He knows I'd best his knights and not be scared to beat him bloody after. He won't punish you for this."

_It's not me I'm scared for! _He had called her stupid before, and silly, but he was the one who couldn't see what would happen. He'd be killed, some way, and then Joffrey'd summon her and send his knights-who-were-not-true-nights, and he'd take her maidenhood and then beat her for lying about her bedding. Some part of her wished that The Hound was truly the monster he claimed to be, and that he had ravaged her and left her bloody and broken. Then, at least, anything Joffrey did would be too little, too late. But he was not a monster. He was a man who'd tried to protect her, despite the danger and…. _Oh._

She quietened, a deep breath or three enough to choke back further sobs, and uncurled a little. There was concern upon his face, and she peered up at him with eyes puffy and red from crying. "Do you… Love me?"

His brow furrowed, and then he laughed. "No, girl, but if I ever do, I'll tell you."

"But why would you protect me if not for love?"

He reached out one hand, pushing her hair back from her forehead and looking her hard in the eyes. "We're pack, Little Bird. You a wolf and me a dog, but that's what we are. And if that lion comes sniffing again, we'll show him our teeth. Now, sleep. I'll be outside."

He left, taking his swordbelt with him, and Sansa slowly changed into her nightgown, spending a long time brushing out her hair before climbing into the bed. The sheets smelt like him, and she clutched a pillow to her chest, frowning at the darkness.

_Funny, how I feel… Disappointed, almost._

But surely that was simply the work of the day's events and her own tiredness. She'd be better by morning.

**OOC: Just a little note to say thank you, to everyone who's left such lovely reviews, and all of you who have followed or fav'd this. It really means a lot to me! And if you wanna chat, my tumblr's on my profile/feel free to PM me :) I'd love to meet some more SanSan fans!**


	14. Chapter 14

Tywin Lannister was a grey man. Not for lack of color, but the grim set of his jaw and the steel in his eyes gave anything he did a lack of frivolity.

"I am only asking you out of necessity, of course. If anyone else could do it, I would ask them first." He jabbed at the map with one long finger, tracing a line through several small towns. "As it is, my son is still held captive by the Stark boy, and you are the only sword who can stop your brother, Lord Clegane."

He'd never get used to that title. He was used to being addressed as 'Hound' or 'Dog'; it suited him. Lords weren't meant to be coarse, they weren't meant to be crude and they weren't meant to be ugly. Yet here he was, and to the rest of King's Landing he was the luckiest dog in the world. It didn't mean he had to be grateful, though, and he was far from it. Sansa kept finding new ways to haunt him. First with her fear, then with her innocence, and now with her wet face in the candlelight, asking him if he loved her. That fucking girl. If only she were older, less of a child, he'd have considered… But she was ten-and-five on her next name day. That was a full thirteen years. And even if she had been older, he knew that he still could not justify any lust he had for her. She was not meant for him. She was meant for a true lord, one without scars. Their marriage would dissolve easily once Joffrey's idiocy lost him the realm, and she could go o better life, with pretty children and a handsome husband. He wasn't stupid enough to hope she'd forget him, but hopefully she'd look upon him as someone who did something right. Not the man who'd scared her but someone she'd tell those children about one day. Pack, he'd told her, and that was his intention for the time being. Yet he'd have to leave one day, and then he'd do it quiet if she was still asking questions like that.  
"I'd do it twice over, but I can't leave King's Landing and leave my wife."

Tywin's eyes narrowed, folding arms that, although strong, were slender compared to his. "Why are you so concerned for her?"  
"That grandson of yours seems to consider her property still, and I'm not leaving her here to be at the mercy of his whims. If i go, then you'll protect her, or I will kill him. I don't give a shit if he's the king or not." He tried to make it seem less protective of her as a person, and more of sheer possessiveness. Tywin had known him for years; he knew that The Hound cared little for women. That'd only been true because of the women around him- none were as pure as Sansa. Here they were whores or hopelessly jaded, and Sandor wouldn't have taken an interest in any. Sansa Stark had been a breath of cold north wind, and he meant to keep her that way.

"She's my reward for fighting Stannis's lot and saving that son of yours, and I mean to keep her to myself." Tywin had shown no sign of even hearing him, but that meant he'd won. Had there been an argument against him, Tywin Lannister'd have reeled it off as matter-of-fact as reading a list from the kitchens. "So she'll have a decent guard?"

"Does two men outside her door and a... loyal female companion sound appropriate?"  
"Aye. And when I come back, she'd better have every hair on her head intact. Or Joffrey'll never have to worry about setting his crown straight."

The threats seemed to amuse Tywin, and even as The Hound stalked from his rooms he'd moved to other business. Yet the issue of telling Sansa remained, and he wished he could find someone else to do it. Alone, she was vulnerable, and that was dangerous. She'd told him of what Joffrey'd told her, that he intended to take her whether or not she was wed, and the thought had made him want to go and strangle the little cunt. She'd stopped him, somehow, but the urge was still there, and if Joffrey did a thing he knew he couldn't suppress it. Seven hells. He had long remembered why he refused to care for people, but it was too late now. His Little Bird had wormed her way in, and to remove her would likely kill him.

**OOC: Hey guys! Only one (short) update tonight, but no worries! I've just had a busy few days, but after tomorrow (fingers crossed!) I should be back on schedule! **

**And again, if any of you wanna chat, please feel free to PM me/add me on tumblr (same account name :3) **


	15. Chapter 15

The Hound had been gone for three days, and although Sansa was still scared, it was less pervasive. She had people with her constantly, the way he'd promised her, but the worry was always there. He might not come back. Sansa had been thinking, and it'd occurred to her that Sandor had been protecting her for longer than she'd realized. He'd scared her at first, the gruesome burns a reality she hadn't wanted to face. She'd never truly seen violence, nor the marks it left. A few men about Winterfell had injuries, but she'd grown up with those men, and what marks they had were simply a part of them. None were as gruesome as The Hound's burns, though. Then it'd changed, somehow, and he'd... Looked after her. She'd been blinded by the pain Joffrey'd caused her, unable to think. Yet now, her days quiet, she could reflect on the small things he'd done that'd kept her alive and mostly unharmed. The white cloak about her shoulders. Even when he'd mocked her, drunk, it'd been for some cause. A reason. He'd wanted to tell her how wrong she'd been about her knights and her stories, but now she could see it from his view and she understood. These few weeks had shown her that he was not the monster she'd thought. He was the opposite of Joffrey. Joffrey's face was beautiful, but he was somehow rotten inside. Meanwhile, Sandor...

She sighed, and Aelinor looked up from her sewing with a small smile. "Thinking of your lord husband, Lady Sansa?"

Sansa felt her cheeks redden, one hand moving to cover the fading bruise that still spread over the side of her neck. She knew Aelinor would gossip when she left her; she'd dash down to the kitchens to giggle with the other women there, and bring the food back late. Sansa didn't dislike her, though, and the rumours that would spread would only cement the lie that she and Sandor had set in place. He didn't love her, nor she him. They were pack, and that was that.  
"I just hope he will be victorious. I saw his brother, at the... the traitor hand's tourney, and he was fearsome." She caught her lip in her teeth, moving her gaze to the window as she let her fingers press faintly upon the bruise. It summoned a ghost of him; His eyes boring into hers as he held out a dagger to her, the soft rasp of his voice as he cursed them all before offering to bleed for her and the scars that crossed his arms and the broad expanse of his back. "And he has a broken arm. I pray it will not hinder him."

The heat in her face had grown, and she knew she could not hide it, instead looking back to her sewing, but Aelinor had noticed despite her vague prayers. "Oh, Lady Sansa, is he that different? I had always imagined The Hound to be brutal, but you're blushing at the very thought..."

"He is Lord Clegane now, Aelinor, and he is my husband. Of course I blush at the thought of him. He is an outstanding man in many aspects."

"Oh, but his face..."

"His face doesn't matter to me. Sandor is far more than his burns, and to me he is just... just..."

"Perfect, Lady Sansa?"  
Sansa didn't respond, lowering her head and picking up her needle once more, a smile playing gently across her lips.


	16. Chapter 16

"Little Bird."  
He was lying beside her, the weight of his body pressing the mattress so she was almost unable to stay still, clutching the sheet in the desire not to go tumbling into him and send them both sprawling to the floor. When he moved there came the sound of metal and Sansa found herself wondering why Sandor was wearing armor abed, but then the room swam green about her and she knew where they were. Her chambers, and the scent of fire and death in the air was choking. She tried to hide her eyes, forgetting where she was, and found herself rolling down until she was stopped by him.  
He was not wearing armor. Her hands, held up to prevent any major damage, had come to stop against skin. He was warm, skin sprouting coarse hairs and the smooth ridges of scar tissue beneath her fingers. She looked up; but his head was covered by his helm, and they were sitting now, kneeling opposite each other as she reached up and lifted the heavy dog's head and revealed the face she knew. "Little Bird."  
His face was harsh and angular, burnt and bruised but despite that she felt joy rise within her, and he smiled as she did. "Sandor. I knew you'd come back."  
"A dog will always return to it's mistress."  
She reached out, and his hand came to meet hers, and still his joints sounded of metal moving and-

"Wake up, girl."  
The hands on her shoulders were rough, and before her was not her Hound but the bearded face of Ser Meryn Trant. She knew it even in the flickering light from the torch held by another of the Kingsguard, and there was a smile upon those lips. "The King requests your presence."  
She blinked, trying to make sense of it, but they did not give her a chance. He jerked her out of bed as easily as a child snatching a doll, and her bare feet skidded along the floorstones, the stupidity of a ruse awakening lifting from her. "No, no, you can't take me there, please, no."  
The other knight laughed, voice muffled by his helmet, mocking her even as she tried to wriggle free. She braced her feet, but all that did was let her toenails grate along the floor, catching in the cracks painfully, imploring them to release her. All they ever did was mock her voice and continue onwards.


	17. Chapter 17

**TW: Sexual violence. Just so you know.**

Her feet were bleeding, and as she was shoved through the doorway they left small red smudges upon the ground. She couldn't steady herself in time, and her knees caught the full momentum of her, making her cry out in pain. And then she raised her eyes, and saw Joffrey, curled in a chair like a housecat, smirking at her.  
"Y... Your Grace."  
His smirk merely widened at her attempt at being polite, and Sansa knew what this was. It was what he'd promised her, what he'd attempted to begin when he'd ordered The Hound to bring her to him. Her protector was gone, and now she had no defenses, and Joffrey meant to have her. All of Sandor had done, for nothing. All she'd endured, all so Joffrey could take her maidenhead. He'd know that they'd lied, too, if it happened, and they'd be punished for it. Nausea rose within her, threatening to spill her supper out upon the expensive carpet.  
"I expect you're wondering why I sent for you, Lady Clegane."  
Joffrey rose. He was wearing his nightclothes, a thin robe made of gold cloth, ruby beads sewn into the shape of a lion upon his chest, and as he stood she realised that he likely wore nothing beneath it. The thought chilled her. She did not want to see him bare, she did not want him anywhere near her in a state of undress. She refused to think anything more than that, although she knew what he intended. Still, he did not step towards her, instead retrieving a scroll from a table then tossing it to her. "Read that. Out loud."  
She picked it up, turning it til the letters were the right way, and began in a halting voice. "Roslin caught a fine fat trout. Her brothers gave her a pair of wolf pelts for her wedding... It is signed by Lord Walder Frey, Your Grace."  
Joffrey was grinning like a jack'o'lantern, and his eyes were bright he stared at her. "Now tell me what you think it means, Sansa."  
She hadn't thought it anything before, but she let her eyes return once more to the page. Roslin... Frey? She had heard, vaguely, that there was to be a wedding between her uncle and a Frey, but that was...  
She dropped the scroll, blood draining from her face.  
"What does it mean?"  
His voice was teasing, on the verge of laughter, and Sansa had to fight the tears back. "That... That my traitor brother is dead."  
"Oh, not just your brother." He paced closer, crouching down and gripping her chin, jerking her head up. "Your mother too, both dead. Your brother's head is on it's way to me right now, and I'm going to make you kiss him goodbye before I tar him and stick him on a spike. Or perhaps I'll tie him about your neck, and let you show him about King's Landing."  
His eyes were entirely mad, glittering green with pupils little more than slits. She could not move, a mouse cornered by a cat, and when his hand gripped her breast through her nightgown she barely jumped. Robb dead. Her mother, dead. Now Joffrey wanted to have her, like some bizarre celebration, and she jerked away. His nails scratched her even through her clothes, but she didn't care. All she wanted was to escape.  
"My Kingsguard are outside the door, Sansa. You're not going to get away. And your husband is off getting himself killed by his brother. You'll be a widow, but you'll still bear my sons if I want you to."  
He stood, and she could see that this was... exciting for him. His tongue squirmed across his lips, and she took one step back and then another, before her back met the wall and she froze once more. Trapped. Her eyes flitted to the window, but he wouldn't let her pass him, and he was inching closer. "Please, your grace, don't..."  
Inch by inch, step by step, he came closer, and she tried to shrink smaller, or to turn into a bird or a wolf the way that the common folk said her brother could transform. But she couldn't, and Joffrey's hands caught the neck of her nightgown, tearing the thin fabric to her waist and jerking it open with a shark intake of breath. Sansa closed her eyes, feeling tears run hot down her cheeks. Please help me, please, please...Joffrey was pressing up against her, and she could feel his manhood hard against her stomach, and she wished she'd never left Winterfell, that she'd never thought she'd loved him, that Sandor would burst in and snatch her from him and oh just stop him, Sandor help me before he-  
There was a commotion outside, shouts, then the door was all but broken in. Joffrey darted backwards, half-stumbling, before glaring at his uncle. His uncle glared back with his mismatched eyes, and Sansa collapsed once more, sobbing.


	18. Chapter 18

Tyrion's hands reminded her of moles. She'd never seen a live one; only little furry things, hanging from hunter's belts, but they had short, wide paws the same as his. It made her wonder if the imp would not be better suited to a life within caves and tunnels. Yet if he'd been in some mysterious grotto far beneath the Red Keep, she'd be subject to Joffrey's every whim. So she didn't laugh, and instead kept her gaze resolutely downwards, occasionally hugging the sheet about her shoulders a little tighter as the two Lannisters exchanged angry words. Joffrey was long-past shouting, but Tyrion's tone was as sharp as Valyrian steel.

"And you expect me to believe that?"  
"It's true." Joffrey was pouting; she could hear it in his voice, the sulkiness and petulance of a spoilt child coloring every syllable.  
Tyrion slammed his hands down onto the table, making it jump. Sansa flinched, and that gave him pause, but he continued anyway. "You expect me to believe that Sandor Clegane would have given her to you to... use as you see fit?"

They'd been chasing in circles for nigh on half an hour, and although Sansa had, at first, been just as fearful as she was with Joffrey assaulting her, a numbness had settled over her. It was only permeated by vague, inappropriate thoughts, and she occasionally had to stifle laughter. If she laughed, it would be until she howled, and then it'd be tears again. It was a dance she'd gone through many times since her father's death, enough so she could predict the steps now.

"He's my dog." Oh, and there came the faint contempt that accompanied Joffrey's perceived victory. Yet the imp was not Cersei, who'd have likely let him continue. No, Tyrion Lannister was quiet, before he began laughing. She could see the vague blond blur of his head out of the corner of her eye, shaking as he chuckled away, the image of mirth. "Your dog? You are far more stupid than I thought. Oh, I needed that. Nothing like a good joke."

"I wasn't joking- and if you call me stupid I'll- I'll-"

"Cut off my head? Like you did Eddard Stark's? I'd consult with your grandfather before you do that. In any case, The Hound is no longer your dog."

"Yes he is. He's The Hound."  
"He's Lord Clegane of- as he'd put it- 'some fucking rock up North'." Sansa glanced up at that, eyes darting from one to the other as Joffrey stared and Tyrion affected nochalance. "And may I remind you that her room was guarded? Of course, you managed to get them sent away, but that shows more effort on your part than on his to take the girl."

Joffrey's face flushed beneath his golden curls, and he looked as if he'd like nothing more than to transform into a lion the way they said Robb could transform into a wolf. But he stayed Joffrey, and the only thing that was fearsome about him now was the power he could wield. "So no. You decided to take her, without her consent or Clegane's. You're lucky I came in when I did, really. I seem to recall my father saying that The Hound was very insistent on you not touching her. I think he said he didn't give a shit if you were king, if I remember right."  
A maidservant, the cups on her tray shuddering slightly, was stopped in the doorway by Ser Loras Tyrell, who took it from her before closing the door in her face. The Kingsguard were, to a man, attempting to blend in to the walls. Perhaps they thought that they would share no blame in this, but the armor and white cloaks made it hard for them to vanish. Ser Loras set the tray down. He'd taken his gauntlets off, the better to assist, yet he still fumbled a little with the pouring. Sansa did not touch hers, but Tyrion drained his in a single long swallow.  
"He would never say that. I'm his king."

"Drink."

Joffrey looked puzzled, Tyrion already pouring himself another cup. "Go on. And once you've drained that cup, tell me how many more you'd need to drink to believe that Sandor Clegane wouldn't dare speak a word against you?"  
Joffrey's lips curled, and he took a sip, then another. Tyrion watched him, mismatched eyes wide and almost innocent, nodding for him to drink more. "Go on. Does it feel more like the truth yet?"

Joffrey had stopped drinking. Instead he was blinking at the cup, before it tumbled from his fingers, the deep red liquid pooling across the table and staining his bedclothes as he brought his hands up to clutch at his throat. Sansa couldn't hope to avert her eyes, and he began to make strangled sounds that caught in his throat, harsh gurgles as his already-pink face darkened. His fingers were digging into his skin now, and she could see a thin trickle of blood edging down his neck before he went limp.  
They sat, silent, Joffrey lolling in his chair, before Ser Meryn Trant let out a shout. "Murderer!"

They were not looking at her; instead Tyrion looked at her with a shrug. "It seems_ everyone_ thinks I'm a murderer these days. Lysa Arryn really fouled my reputation."

He glanced over Ser Meryn, who'd half-drawn his sword, and sighed. "Someone go and fetch the Maester. And my beloved sister- and take this girl back to her husband's chambers. She's been through enough today."

**OOC: Brief dedication to my irl industrybro Krissie who helped with the plotline and also to Tumblr's GlasgowHound, who is fantastic at accumulating things with the lovely Mr Rory McCann in and who's blog makes me happy.**

**Also, brief author-news- I'm going back to uni in September, and this weekend my boyfriend and I are going to look at our prospective living environment! So updates are a little spaced out, but I'm not stopping ;3 It's all very exciting! :D**

**And massive, massive thank yous to all of you who have reviewed and fav'd and followed and everything. You've helped me through what was a very stressful time, and I cannot thank you enough!**


	19. Chapter 19

The morning had come, too bright for her tired eyes. Joffrey was not dead; he lay unconscious, much as Bran had been when she left Winterfell. Sansa felt no pity for him, only a distinct detachment. All the fear had vanished as she'd watched him convulse and choke, and he'd turned from a threat to a sick child. Still, she'd had to sit there as the goldcloaks flooded the room, and Cersei had dashed in, stumbling to her knees. The Queen had wailed, as her own mother had upon Bran's fall, and for a moment their eyes met. Sansa had been sure that Cersei would accuse her, but it was as if she were nothing more than empty air; she paused to draw breath before rounding on her brother, and Sansa took the chance to slip away.  
She'd barred the door behind her, something she'd neglected before. She'd been lulled by the men outside her door; they'd seemingly gone to celebrate Robb's death in some inn, and her lady companions were abed when they'd come to take her. Now, though, she was entirely safe, and she flung herself down upon the bed, burying her face in the linens. Sansa didn't know if she should laugh or cry, yet the vague scent of The Hound somehow grounded her in reality, and she'd trembled faintly for a few minutes before assuming her regular routine before bed, casting aside her torn nightgown and choosing another, brushing out her hair. She'd curled up beneath the blankets, but hadn't been able to drift away as she'd hoped. Instead the hours passed, and beyond the windows a new day dawned.  
Would they want her in court today? She decided that no, they likely would not, and sat up. The lack of sleep had made her head feel thick, as if stuffed with fabric, and it stung a little when she blinked. Perhaps she should go and ask for a bath to be brought up, or- her eyes shifted, and caught a hint of yellow fabric, caught beneath the lid of her trunk. It was brighter than most things in the room. Perhaps it was just tiredness, but the color was almost hypnotizing. Sansa knew what it was even before she opened the trunk and unfurled it. Her Bridal cloak, coarse and cheap, with the clumsily-made dogs upon it. Yet it was comforting, not for the man it represented but his deeds, and the time she'd spent beneath it as a sanctuary. Sansa had hidden it when Sandor had left, but now there would be nobody to gossip about it, and she settled it about her shoulders before moving to sit once more.

She awoke in a forest, the curve of a horse's neck dappled with morning sun and armored men about her.

**OOC: Sorry for the wait, guys! Life is being a bit stressful right now, what with uni coming up, so updates are likely to be a bit scattered until my finance is sorted and I've got everything done that needs to be done. :) I've not abandoned this- just sometimes things have to take a step back for a bit.**


	20. Chapter 20

The knowledge that something was horribly, horribly wrong had appeared and then, as quickly as it came, dissolved again into a complete lack of feeling. Or no, that was wrong; she was at-ease, although she knew she shouldn't be, and with every second that passed the sheer strangeness of it all intensified. It was familiar, but not. She knew the hand holding the reins, and she knew the horse's neck before her, yet it wasn't one she could ever recall riding. Yet she felt... at ease? Almost excited, somehow, and then the horse jolted and pain shot through her arm- and she cursed.

It wasn't her voice.

It had the grate of a sword being sharpened on a whetstone, and then one of the men ahead turned back, a grin on the familiar face. Beric Dondarrion, nose broken and a tooth missing from his smile, arched an eyebrow. "Arm troubling you, Clegane?"

"It's the fucking road that's troubling me."

"Well, we'll be at an inn soon enough. Good that your men found us before we encountered that brother of yours. We've seen his handiwork."

Beric's horse slowed til he came level with Sandor, and Sansa felt a vague twinge of irritation towards the red-headed man. No; Sandor felt it, and she was somehow privy to it. It was nothing like her own annoyances, at Arya or Rickon or any of her other siblings. Sandor's was nowhere near as intense, an old wound being probed rather than a fresh one. Aye, you're looking at his fucking handiwork, Dondarrion.  
It seemed to Sansa that she was within a bubble in Sandor's mind; able to see out but protected from being found. Certainly, she was aware of his thoughts, but they were vague, muffled. Yet she could feel what he felt, and that brought back a memory. Before Lady's death, when she and Arya were sharing a bed in an inn on the Kingsroad, and her sister's round eyes as she whispered that she'd had a wolf dream that night. And then, another memory, of the old king's voice, irritated. _A direwolf's no pet. Get her a dog, she'll be happier for it_.

Were the gods that cruel in their amusement? Or perhaps it wasn't cruelty at all. Sandor had, after all, protected her. Coarse protection, maybe, but The Hound was a coarse man.

Dondarrion sped up again, leaving her- no, Sandor- alone, and the world went black as Sandor closed his eyes, and she saw herself.

_If I die, I'll be doing her no good._  
His picture of her was blurred, but she knew that room, and she recognized the figure of Joffrey stalking about her. Rage boiled within her, but it wasn't her rage, and it wasn't the rage of possessiveness. It reminded her of her anger at Lady's death, the anger of something she loved so dearly being killed.  
_I cannot leave her alone with that pox of a boy. I shouldn't have left her in the first place, but it's too late for that now. Tywin'd better keep his promises, or I'll kill them all. Every Lannister._  
It changed, then, his image of her, to her sleeping, curled up, and he sighed._ Little Bird. My Little Bird. I should be guarding that cage of yours._  
_Shitty job I've done so far. Terrifying her. Hurting her. The things I do for-_

Sansa jerked awake, the sun shining in through the narrow slit windows and half-blinding her, and her heart pounded beneath her sleeping gown. It took a minute, the emotions she'd been separated from passing through her like waves before she got hold of herself, and even then her hands still trembled as she loosed her hair. It fell about her face, a veil, and she shivered faintly.  
"The things I do for love."


	21. Chapter 21

Darkness had fallen, although Sansa had returned to her rooms far earlier.  
Two weeks. He'd been gone for three days, before she'd had the dream, and so that likely meant he wasn't returning. Two weeks. Or perhaps her dream was nothing more than that, a dream, and Arya's wolf dreams were merely her sister being overly imaginative. Still, she went to court, hoping for news, but all she heard were tales of how Joffrey still breathed, how his condition may improve with time. Once, she'd have cared, but now all it seemed was foolishness. Bran had awoken, but Bran hadn't been poisoned- and Bran was crippled. If Joffrey awoke, maybe he'd be as dull as Hodor, or unable to move.

What if Gregor had killed him? Her brother was dead, and Sandor Clegane was all she had. She'd spent far too long thinking these past weeks, and the conclusion she'd come to was that she needed The Hound. He was grumpy, and ugly, and she had no delusions that he could be gentle, but at the same time he'd done more than anyone had for her in King's Landing. Her bruises had faded, but she'd forgiven him for the pain- not that it'd hurt much, compared to all that Joffrey had done. Sandor only knew how to hurt. He'd not had anyone love him; it was so obvious that he could have worn a sign proclaiming it about his neck. Yet for all their courtly ways, those knights knew even less than he did. And an eager dog could always learn. Farlen, the master of hounds back at Winterfell, had always said that any dog could be taught; one of his most prized bitches had been found full-grown and feral as any wolf, but you wouldn't think that to look at her. Yet could The Hound be taught different?  
Maybe. Perhaps.

She'd been re-reading her old tales recently, although she'd set Jonquil and Florian aside. She'd offered to sing that to The Hound, and his response had shocked her- 'A fool and his cunt,' he'd said. But would he like the ones she was reading now? She'd set the book down, caught on a single line the night before. It took a kiss to tame the beast and transform him back into the man he'd been before.  
She lit the candles as it grew darker, before braiding her hair to sleep and lying beneath her bridal cloak once more. It was a comfort now, whereas before it'd been a shield. Her fingers traced the blobby hounds sewn upon it, before she let her eyes close with a sigh. She'd go to court once more tomorrow, and see what was said.

It was dark again when she was woken, the soft scrape of the door bringing back memories of Meryn Trant's smirk. Joffrey is probably going to die, he cannot hurt me-  
The candles had gone out, and the room was so dark she couldn't see. But she could smell the scent of horse and sweat, and then there was a thump.

"Seven _fucking_ hells."

"Sandor?"

Sansa blinked, willing her eyes to adjust, and there- some darkness that was blacker than the rest. Only this time there was no sudden green illumination to reveal the scarred man.

"Who else would it be?"

She slid out of bed, moving slowly to avoid stubbing her toes or tripping, arms outstretched before her. She only sped up when she felt rough material on her fingers, and the warmth of another body beneath that.

"I thought you were dead!"

He didn't embrace her back; he just stood, and she could almost see his face, brows knit with confusion. Still, she clung to him, pressing her face against his chest.

"We were close to the Riverlands when the messenger found us with news of Joffrey's... attempted assassination. Didn't see my blasted brother, only a few burnt villages." His hands found her back, awkwardly, but that made it all the sweeter, for it meant it was truly him. "They said you were when it happened."

"He... sent his Kingsguard for me. But Tyrion Lannister- he came in before anything..."

The fingers on her back curled into fists, mindless of the delicate fabric beneath. "That fucking... Where is he?"

"Don't." Sansa's voice, somehow, had a steel in it that reminded her of her mother's, and she stepped back from him, turning to find the means to light a candle or two.

"I made his grandfather promise to look after you."

"I know." The flickering light soothed her a little, and she turned, clasping her hands before her. "Because you had to go. But you came back for me."

Sandor's eyes were still clouded by anger, but he was listening, mouth twitching enough to expose flashes of gritted teeth.

"Even though you could be going to face your brother, you came back."

"What of it?"

"If you go and kill Joffrey, you may as well have stayed and looked for Gregor, and lose. If you murder Joffrey, they'll kill you, and me as well."

She could see herself reflected in his eyes, hands now clenched by her sides, almost a child still. That was how he saw her. Weak, young, a bird in a cage. Trapped. And for all the love he might feel, he would sooner end up dead than tell her. Fourteen days of thought- her mind had pored over every action of his to the point of exhaustion, from their first meeting, and even though it might all be a flight of fancy, she knew that there'd been stranger things. Her mother had not been intended for her father, but they'd adored each other, and she knew that the time her father spent at war were months her mother spent thinking. Sansa did not love Sandor- not the way she'd always heard love was. Love was what she'd once felt for Joffrey, and he'd become a monster. What she felt for Sandor was different. It didn't match with the tales; there'd been no grand moment where their eyes met and she'd known they were meant to be. Yet she trusted him. She trusted him beyond anyone she'd ever known, and she knew that she needed him. Not just for protection, but for the kindness she knew he hid, and for his clumsy attempts at comfort and for the lies he'd told for her. He was still, now, and she could see him- his hair greasy and skin grimy, but that only told her that this wasn't a dream.

A step forward, and she could make out the rise and fall of his chest, the awkward way he let his once-broken arm hang by his side. It hadn't fully healed; but it was so like Sandor to be impatient brought a smile to her lips, and she took another step, and another, until she had to look up to see his face. He'd tried to hide his burns again, beneath his fine, dark hair, but she brushed the locks away as he narrowed his eyes at her, mouth curling at the corners.

"I don't want either of us to die."


	22. Chapter 22

Had she grown while he was gone? It had been a hard gallop back, made all the harder by his aching arm and the idiots he rode with, so surely it was too short a time for Sansa Stark to have developed the iron he could see writ upon her face, or the courage to touch his scars. Yet her hand was there, soft against the leather of his face, and he was unable to move aside from the uncontrollable twitch of his mouth.  
Either of us?

Her eyes, blue as the summer sky, blinked, then squinted at him.

"I won't go, Little Bird."

Her smile appeared, true and bright, and she hurled herself at him. It was all Sandor could do to catch her with one arm, although she'd wrapped her own arms around his neck tight enough to stay there if he let her go. This affection was new too, something he'd never seen from the girl. Her behavior with Joffrey, back when she'd cared for him, had been carefully measured against every rule she knew, and he'd never seen her as physically happy with her family. She'd argued with her sister all the way down the Kingsroad, and her father had been too busy to spend much time with them.

"I'll have to put you down, girl."

Her face rose from his shoulder, painted with concern. "Oh, Sandor, are you alright?"

"Tired."

Sansa was so close to him, wide-eyed and worried now, yet it was still enough to stir a chain reaction of thoughts, clicking into place. He could kiss her, like he had before, and there'd be no blood and maybe she'd even be welcome to it. Doesn't make it the right thing to do. He shuffled to the bed, thinking about sitting himself before he realized that she'd like as not feel what the thought of kissing her had done to him. So he set her down, and she stood, the two of them almost of a height with her raised like that.

"I was worried about you."

Why wouldn't she sit, or go back to sleep? He made to step back, but her hand caught his arm, and he hadn't the self-control to pull himself away, though he could take his eyes from her now.

"You shouldn't have been."

Her hand found his face again, turning his head back so he faced her, still too close for his liking, but he kept on anyway. He could ignore her, if he tried hard enough, and he knew he wouldn't let himself move closer. "I can look after myself well enough, girl. You should worry about yourself."

She didn't reply to that, and she'd lowered her eyes. Good. Let her push whatever it was that'd possessed her away, let her feel badly about fretting for him. He'd do her no good. Perhaps those weeks away had somehow turned him into a hero in her mind, but he was so far from that it'd hurt to pretend. He could handle guilt over hurting her; he'd been handling it since their marriage. He'd rather be whipped than harm her again the way he had, and his reaction to leaving those marks upon her had shamed him more than anyone he'd killed. The bruises had gone, but the memory of it remained, as well as that kiss he'd ripped from her. Was it her first? He didn't know, and it'd have been worse for him to think of if it had been.

"You're all I have left."

Sandor sighed at that, and Sansa's hand left his arm. "I'm not leaving now. Let me sleep, Little Bird. It's been a long ride home."

She stepped away, settling upon the bed, and he turned to go to his chair.

"Sleep here."

He hadn't the heart to refuse her, but he did not undress. Instead he blew the candle out, and lay beside her.


	23. Chapter 23

**OOC: Hey guys! As usual, thanks for the reviews, favorites and follows. I love every one of you!**

**Also, I'm not dead! As is typical for this time of year, I started uni again (creative writing course, so I'm putting everything I learn into this!) and I'm commuting. This means 3 6am starts a week, and I'm still getting into the groove of things; hence the lack of writing. I've also rewritten this chapter 3 times or so, just because I wasn't happy with it (Blame Cersei. It's all her fault.), so everything got a bit delayed. However, I'm fleshing out this story arc, and everything should be back on track in the next few weeks. As usual, you can PM me here orrrrr contact me on tumblr ( .com) if you feel chatty. I'm always up for new Sansan friends 3**

**ALSO: can we have a raincheck on the 'short chapter' reviews? I'm keeping them short so I can do lots of little updates, rather than one big one a month, so it's for a reason :) Also, short stories tend to be more 'my thing' so this is a really big thing for me, so it's all to keep me writing! ^ ^**

The halls were empty, turned dusky orange by the torches that flickered against the dark. Normally, this time of night, the keep would be far dimmer, but it seemed that The Lannister Bitch was trying to fight death off with fire.

The stones were still cool as he leaned against them, forehead to the rough-hewn brick, and he bared his teeth in a silent growl.

_I have a new command for you, Dog. Give your little wolf bitch a litter._

Cersei had never looked so... Unpolished in all the years he'd stood guard outside her door. Not even bidding her brother goodbye with ruffled hair and that smug little smirk on her face. This was not _that_ sort of unpolished. She'd had wine stains on her dress, and she stank of the stuff. He knew, now, what he must seem like at his worst, and yet on the Queen it looked like all seven hells. Her golden hair was lank and tangled, a crop of pimples crusting the sides of her mouth, and her skin was mottled with grime. Yet she was still queen, dirty and drunk or not, and her commands would be remembered. Cersei always remembered. If he didn't obey, his feeble excuse for appearing in Joffrey's chamber so late would be unmasked for what it was, although even if his motives had been pure it'd end up the same. Sansa had begged him not to go, but how would she know? He was capable of more types of killing than butchery; a hand clamped over Joffrey's airways and the boy'd be gone within minutes. No evidence. Yet Sandor would have had his revenge, and he could be happy.

He should have expected it, in truth. He'd seen this sort of grief only too recently, and it was naive of him to think that Catelyn Stark and Cersei Lannister were so different when it came to their sons. It had taken a dagger to tear Sansa's mother from her son's side; it'd likely take more than that to make Cersei leave her boy. Joffrey was cruel, stupidly so, but he was her firstborn while Brandon Stark was... what, the third child, ignoring the bastard. The firstborns always had some favor over the others. He knew it, as the second son, and he'd seen it when his father lied to protect his brother. An accident, he'd muttered, his bedding caught afire. A stray spark, a candle maybe... It hadn't been out of fear of Gregor. How could it have been? If he'd wanted his son locked up, that had been his true chance.  
Gregor was the first one, the son and heir, and Sandor little more than insurance should something happen. A fall from a horse, an illness run rampant, anything that would send a boy to an early grave.

"Never thought I'd be the fucking Lord of Winterfell, did you, father?"

But his father was dead, and he was stood in King's Landing, trying to escape Cersei's orders.

_Give your little wolf bitch a litter. And don't unpack your bags, dog. You're leaving soon._

He'd laughed at that, harshly, before telling the Queen that his cock wasn't long enough to get the girl with child while he was off hunting his brother. But he wasn't going after Gregor. No, the queen was sending them away from King's Landing. To Casterly Rock. Sandor should have been pleased. His bird would be away from King's Landing. _Aye, and to get there she'll be taken through the west and into the Lannister fortress. The west where people are starving and the roads where there are more robbers than blades of grass. It'll be a miracle if she makes it there without being raped or ransomed. Even with me there. The queen bitch hasn't the men to guard us, nor the will to._

He swung, knuckles catching the rough stone and losing the battle with a crunch and a smear of blood. Sandor Clegane was a man used to being capable, and his capability was born of his sheer lack of giving a shit. It was easy to fight like a madman when death would likely be a relief. Easier too, when you had nobody who depended on you.

They'd given him Sansa, but he'd grown the weakness himself. It was unbearable; he told himself to go and drink and whore and fight, but the thought of Sansa's disappointment in him kept him gritting his teeth and suffering through it. What a well-trained dog he was, staying even when he'd not been commanded to. They'd likely be joking about him in the taverns, about how funny it was that a delicate highborn girl held his leash and he'd roll over and beg for scraps from her.

_But, of course, what can a dog be given but scraps from his master's table?_

The little shit. Of course, he _lay_ in shit now. Not even the incense Cersei burnt could disguise the way the boy-king stank, nor the stains on his sheets. Like as not, nobody could change them. Cersei was guarding her cub, but she was no wild lion. A true lion would have abandoned that cub long ago, while she probably chased off anyone who dared come close. They might finish the job, after all, and no Lannister'd changed a bedsheet since before the Targaryens. So Joffrey lay in filth; and fate seemed to want Sansa in danger. Sandor was no pious man, but for this he'd curse them all. The old gods and the new gods and the wet gods and dry gods and that fucking fire god and every other god that was offered to and bowed before, and the kings and queens of every land.

For all that, though, he'd just be another dog howling at the moon, scenting danger to come.

He'd bite every hand that was raised towards her, but he had a suspicion that teeth would not be enough to win this battle.


	24. Chapter 24

Sandor had left her, and Sansa had known that he wouldn't come back. She'd lain there, clutching the blankets to her chin, and listening for the shouts and clash of blades. She'd asked him not to, but she couldn't exactly blame him. If she could, she'd have killed Joffrey long before, as soon as he'd made it clear he had no mercy for her father. If she'd been able to do it at a thought, Ser Ilyn would have fallen, and then Joffrey would have crumpled too, then the rest of them. Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, Queen Cersei- not Tommen or Myrcella, though. They were only babies, and it wasn't their fault that their brother was so cruel. She could blame Cersei for Joffrey, though. Once she'd seen how cruel he could be, she could recognise that the Queen was the one who'd let him be this way. Her father had always told Robb that power was something to be wary of, because it could turn you into something bad; and Robb had been Robb, a born lord.

The thought of Robb and her father made her chest ache.

So did thoughts of her mother, of Bran and Rickon, even of Arya and Jon Snow. Why had she been so... so...

"Childish."

She had been a child, but that was no excuse for how she'd wanted Jon to leave them, and nothing could justify what she'd done to Arya on the Kingsroad. Arya and Lady both; all in the hope that the venom she'd seen on Joffrey's face was just anger at her sister and not her.  
The Red Keep stayed silent, and she lay with bated breath, counting over her sins. It kept her calm, suppressed the urge to try to find Sandor. She knew where he'd gone, those rooms that smelt of death and decay. She'd been made to visit Joffrey by the Queen, an attempt to frighten her into saying who poisoned him. Yet Sansa Stark was no longer easily frightened. She was the North now, and she could meet Cersei's eyes as she told her that she hadn't seen a thing. The Queen had been so angry that she'd flung her cup of wine against the wall, before hissing at her to get out, calling her names. It hadn't scared her either. It reminded her of Rickon screaming when he was told 'no,' and she held that thought close, cherishing the escape into humor it provided.

Footsteps.

She closed her eyes at the scuff of foot on stone, letting her breathing slow and deepen, waiting. They stopped, then grew softer, and the door creaked open. She watched a thin bar of flickering firelight stretch across the floor from between her lashes, then it vanished, swallowed by Sandor's shadow. She couldn't see his scars; the light illuminated the skin stretched over his cheekbones and the curve of his hawklike nose. His mouth, so cruel, but it made her think of home and the statues deep beneath it. He was from the Westerlands, but he looked more of the North than she did. Sansa knew that she bore the Tully mark as plain as day. She'd been told so since she was old enough to understand it. It'd been a good thing she was a girl- if Robb had been born like her, the North probably wouldn't have gathered behind him so readily. Robb had been the true child of her parent's marriage, a combination of them both. She was her mother's daughter, and Arya was her father's, and Bran and Rickon weren't old enough to tell properly. Their faces had still been soft and babyish when she'd left, still forming.  
Sandor had stopped moving, and she shifted, trying her hardest to seem asleep. His eyes were closed, she could vaguely make that out, and he closed the door slowly. So as not to wake me. He's closing his eyes so he can see better in the dark, and he doesn't want to disturb me.  
What had happened? Was Joffrey dead? Had Sandor gone up there and left a dagger in Joffrey's- no. He wasn't stupid._ A hand clamped over her face, so big and immovable, and he'd told her he'd kill her and called her Little Bird and kissed her and asked her to tell him what he should do. _That would be how he did it, stopping the shallow breathing and the rise-and-fall of Joffrey's chest and leaving nothing behind.

He padded over to the bed, only once bumping into some furniture with a muffled curse, and lay awkwardly beside her, trying to take up as little space as a man of his size could. Even his breathing was tense, and when his arm brushed hers as he'd covered himself with the blanket he'd drawn it back, quick as a cat. Was it just a dream then, him thinking of her, and the things I do for love? Did she even want him to relax, to feel the warmth of his arm against hers? He'd killed Joffrey, she was sure of that, and didn't that mean they should... Have some small comfort, just in case? She shifted, turning to face him with eyes closed. His breath caught, for an instant, and she reached out, finding his hand with purposefully clumsy fingers. He didn't pull away.

The next morning, Joffrey was still alive, and Sansa was summoned to Cersei's chambers.


End file.
